


Like glitter and gold (I've got fire in my soul)

by blackkat



Series: Superhero!AU [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Cheese, Crack, Damsels in Distress, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mom!Orochimaru, Romance, only not, terrible flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Photokinetic,” Orochimaru repeats, eyes narrowing faintly at the White Fang. If he’s dealing with an idiot, he’ll—well. Be polite, because the man did save him, and Jiraiya will be <i>insufferable</i> if he makes his hero-rescuer cry (again). </p><p>To his surprise, however, it’s not offense overtaking the hero’s face, but <i>glee</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like glitter and gold (I've got fire in my soul)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm discovering that crack ships are not only called that because they're cracky, but because they are _addictive_. I shouldn’t have written this. I _really_ shouldn’t have mostly skipped sleep for the last two days to write it, either. But I did, and am full of regrets. Particularly about my rare pairs, but also about my life choices in general. 
> 
> (Title is from _Glitter & Gold_ by Barns Courtney.)

The results from the last test are so irregular they're _fascinating,_ Orochimaru thinks, eyes on the readout in his hands as he sidesteps a group of teenage girls clustered before a shop window. Someone slams into his shoulder, going too fast, but Orochimaru doesn’t even look up, for once too interested to be annoyed.

His abilities are increasing. _Everyone’s_ abilities are increasing. By all rights, by all _logic_ , they should hit a plateau when the brain or the body stops developing, should remain the same afterwards. Instead, it’s as though true development doesn’t even _begin_ until that stage—as though the adaptations wait for a stable platform on which to build before they begin the most strenuous changes. That, however, implies a level of sentience that Orochimaru simply can't attribute to a simple mutating agent, and—

There's a yell, a yelp, an angry shout. Before Orochimaru can so much as lift his head there’s a hand on his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and then a shove that’s so hard it actually lifts him off his feet. He tumbles sideways, hands too full to grab for the streetlight next to him even as papers and notebooks go spilling from his grasp, and right off the edge of the sidewalk before he can even attempt to get his feet under him. Horns blare, loud and frantic, and Orochimaru has just enough time for one brief but heartfelt flare of aggravation—do they think he’s falling _on purpose_ , the morons?—as he closes his eyes, bracing himself for his inevitably messy end.

Someone catches him.

In the same moment, there's a jerk, a wrench as Orochimaru is lifted off his feet, and then a bone-jarring _jolt_ that perfectly coincides with a scream of tortured metal as it crumples and buckles.

Orochimaru immediately blinks his eyes open, cautious but interested, and finds himself cradled against a white-clad chest that bears a red and black spiral. One bracer-covered arm is clutching him close, and there's silver hair falling around his face from the head bent over his own. A quick glance up and around is enough to take in the very large city bus that would have crushed him, held in place by a glowing shield of white light that’s hard enough to have put a deep dent into the front of the vehicle.

“Oh,” he says, unable to quite think of anything else. Then his brain catches up with his body, and he glances back at the street, towards the fleeing man who shoved him. “Your purse-snatcher is getting away,” he points out.

With a screeching crunch, the man extracts his shield from the grill of the bus and takes a step away, then sets Orochimaru back on his feet. “That’s okay,” he says cheerfully. “This is the reason why I have a—”

“Ha!” a young boy’s voice shouts, and a much smaller shape comes flying out of an alley between two buildings, hitting the criminal feet-first in the back. The man goes down with a yelp, and the boy pins his arms with quick, practiced efficiency.

“Sidekick,” the hero finishes, still grinning a little, and looks Orochimaru over. “Are you all right? That could have been nasty.”

Realization strikes. “My notes!” Orochimaru hisses, lunging around the man to snatch them up off the sidewalk. A few have footprints on them, and one that landed halfway in a puddle of something unidentifiable is entirely unsalvageable, but a quick accounting proves that everything else is present. All except—

A blue notebook covered with Orochimaru’s precise, microscopic writing is dangled in front of his nose and waved gently. “Sorry about that,” the hero apologizes, the good humor on his face unwavering. “I didn’t think he’d try to distract me like that, or I would have had Cub take him out earlier.”

Slowly, Orochimaru takes the notebook, eyes narrowed, trying to assess why the man doesn’t look the least bit angry or even vaguely frustrated. That’s the common reaction, even among friends, to his preoccupation with his research. “No harm was done,” he finally says, unable to find the smallest hint of irritation in the man’s face. Granted, the mask covers most of it, but Orochimaru is fairly decent at reading body language when he actually bothers to pay attention. Surely he’s not missing anything too obvious right now. “That shield—you're photokinetic?”

The question earns him a startled look. “What?”

“Photokinetic,” Orochimaru repeats, eyes narrowing faintly. If he’s dealing with an idiot, he’ll—well. Be polite, because the man did save him, and Jiraiya will be _insufferable_ if he makes his hero-rescuer cry (again). (Though that other time most definitely didn’t count, _obviously_ the man was using sleight of hand and a minor talent for illusion to mimic superhuman strength held in check, Orochimaru really can't understand how no one else saw it, so it’s hardly his fault for pointing it out to the man’s face.) “Hard light constructs? Tactile holograms? The manipulation of visible light through control of photons and electromagnetic radiation on a quantum scale?”

To his surprise, it’s not offense overtaking the hero’s face, but _glee_. “You're a physicist?” he asks with interest, hand still gripping the other end of the notebook. “I thought there were only a few who specialized in optics in Konoha.”

“Biochemist,” Orochimaru corrects, feeling his hackles go down a little. “But I have an interest other areas of study beside my own.”

“A fairly wide interest, it seems,” the man says, grinning. He steps back, releasing the notebook fully, and makes a gesture with one hand. White light springs up around his fingers in a showy swirl, then condenses. Six pure white roses form in his hand, glowing like trapped moonlight, and he bows and offers them to Orochimaru. “As an apology for getting you caught up in our chase.”

“You are _so embarrassing_ ,” the sidekick complains, stalking over to them. He’s dressed in a similar costume, repeating the theme of red and white, with a long green scarf wrapped around his neck and entirely too much attitude for someone who barely comes up to Orochimaru’s chest. The same silvery-white hair, Orochimaru notes with interest—likely father and son, then, or at the very least closely related, because that’s an uncommon color even in Konoha. “If you're done being mortifying, can we go?”

“Cub,” the man sighs, amused and a little despairing. He offers Orochimaru the flowers with a faintly apologetic smile.

Orochimaru is hardly about to let the chance to study a hard light construct pass him by. He takes them, vaguely trying not to seem too eager even though it’s likely a lost cause, and runs his fingers up and down the thornless stems. They're warmer than the surrounding air, and the glow doesn’t fade even when the hero pulls his hand back.

“Thank you,” he says, because Tsunade would hit him if he didn’t, and unlike Jiraiya, he tends to do anything in his power to avoid such a fate. “For saving me. And the flowers.”

The hero winks at him, smile warm, and makes a sweeping gesture. Light shimmers into being, a flat disk beneath his feet, and starts to rise. With the ease of practice, Cub grabs onto the edge as it lifts, hauling himself up to sit by his father’s boots, and offers Orochimaru a lazy salute.

“It was my pleasure, believe me,” the hero says, lifting a hand, and then they're sweeping away into the sky and out of sight.

Orochimaru stands in the street, watching their figures disappear against the skyline, and then drops his gaze to the white roses. Their glow is steady and strong, pale but kind, and…surely he doesn’t need to study _all_ of them. Just one. The rest he can set aside for later contemplation, if he ever gets that far.

(He doesn’t. Five moon-white roses sit in a vase on his desk for a very, very long time, and everyone who sees them learns very quickly not to comment.)

 

 

His phone rings while he’s in the middle of wrangling Anko into a bath, and he lunges to catch her around the waist with one arm while the other hand snatches the mobile off the counter and accepts the call.

It is, in retrospect, probably a mistake.

“When were you going to tell me that you got saved from becoming a pavement splatter by the _White Fang_?” is what Tsunade opens with.

“The _what_?” Orochimaru demands snappishly, only halfway listening at best. “Anko, you are _eleven_ , personal hygiene should not be a daily battle— _Anko_ —”

“But I took a shower two days ago!” Anko protests, wriggling like a greased eel. “And I only played in the dirt _once_ , Dad, lemme go, I'm _fine_!”

“No, that’s not—Anko!” Since he’s only hanging on to her with one hand and Anko is well-practiced in this game, she jerks, twists out of his grasp, and bolts. Orochimaru lunges after her, cursing whatever impulse ever made him think that _parenting_ was within his admittedly considerable skillset, and almost drops the phone into Manda’s tank as he trips over a discarded pile of textbooks. A quick sidestep catches the phone and keeps Orochimaru on his feet, if only just, and he ignores the snake’s amusement in his mind as he juggles it, then presses it back to his ear.

“Trouble?” Tsunade asks, in the tone of voice that means she’s laughing at him and doesn’t care if he knows it.

“I _loathe_ children,” Orochimaru says, scraping his long hair out of his face with a grimace. “Were you the one who talked me into this?”

Now Tsunade is audibly laughing at him. “No, Orochimaru, I wasn’t. In fact, I _clearly_ remember telling you that it wasn’t going to be anywhere near as easy as you imagined and that you should think carefully about the decision. Care to say it?”

Like hell Orochimaru is ever going to say _yes, you told me so_ to Tsunade—the only one he’s less likely to admit such a thing to is Jiraiya. “You were saying?” he asks instead, cool enough that she’ll definitely notice he’s not pleased with the demand.

He doesn’t have to see Tsunade to know she’s rolling her eyes at him. “Today, when you almost got up close and personal with the express line to Tanzaku Boulevard. The White Fang saved you.”

“The White Fang,” Orochimaru repeats distastefully. “Is that his name? He uses an article in front of it? My good opinion of him is sinking rapidly.”

“Good?” Trust Tsunade to latch on to the one part of that sentence Orochimaru would rather she have missed. “Orochimaru, I've known you since you were _born_. The _only_ heroes you’ve ever had a good opinion of are Tempest and Hellcat.”

Orochimaru huffs, even as he heads down the hall with one ear trained for any sign of his wayward daughter. “We’ve had this discussion multiple times—violent street crime is the real threat to Konoha, not those flamboyant showmen Sharingan and Shodai deign to deal with every now and then. If more heroes took the time to see the larger picture and address—”

“You're preaching, but I'm already in the choir, Orochimaru,” Tsunade says, wearily amused, and a quick check of the clock above the kitchen sink makes Orochimaru realize she must have just gotten off shift at the hospital. No wonder she sounds like she’s in need of a solid eighteen hours of rest. There's a quiet sigh over the line, and the she adds pointedly, “ _Good_ opinion?”

“I said it was sinking,” Orochimaru reminds her, annoyed, and opens the linen closet.

“AAAAAAH!” Anko screeches, bolting past him with a pillowcase over her head.

Conversation forgotten, Orochimaru spins to give chase, and is just in time to see a sock-covered foot thrust out from around the corner directly in Anko's path. She hits it running full-out and goes down with a shriek, and Orochimaru wastes no time cornering her.

“Kabuto, don’t trip your sister,” he says, even though what he really wants to do is thank the boy and promise all the lab materials he could want for the next month.

“Sorry, Dad,” Kabuto says perfunctorily, pushing his glasses up his nose and regarding Orochimaru as if he is aware _exactly_ what Orochimaru is thinking. He could be, for all Orochimaru knows—they’ve never determined the exact extent of his mimicry abilities. Orochimaru’s had thoughts about copying brainwave patterns as well as physical forms, but—

“Daaaaad,” Anko complains, though she seems to have at least stopped trying to get away and is flailing sadly on the hardwood like a beached starfish.

“Bath,” Orochimaru tells her firmly. “And because of this little production you’ve put on, and seeing as I am fully aware that you know better, Kabuto gets to pick what show you watch.”

Kabuto looks smug, and Anko's expression shades towards murderous. “But—!”

“ _Bath_ , Anko, or you won't get to watch a show at all tonight. And Kabuto, go pick up your textbooks in the living room before someone trips over them again.”

“Yes, Dad,” they both chorus, varying levels of sheepish, and head in opposite directions.

When they're safely out of earshot, Orochimaru sighs, shoving his hair back behind his ears and retrieving his cell phone from where he dropped it. There are a few new scuffs and a small dent, but it’s still working, and to Orochimaru’s great annoyance the call is still in progress. He rolls his eyes and returns it to his ear as he heads back to the kitchen.

“I hate you,” he informs Tsunade testily, rolling up his sleeves again and sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can finish the last of the dishes.

Tsunade laughs at him, the witch. “Of course you do,” she prods. “Don’t think you're getting out of this just because your daughter’s a hellion. You liked the White Fang? _You_?”

“Until I learned what he calls himself,” Orochimaru retorts. “But he correctly named the study of light, so I suppose he isn’t as much a moron as he could be.”

“High praise, coming from you.” Tsunade's voice is a little wry. “And that pretty bouquet of flowers he gave you has nothing to do with anything?”

Orochimaru would gladly burn every news outlet in the city to ashes and consider it a public service rendered. _Especially_ the ones that make a point of capturing the “nobility and gallantry of local heroes”. Truly, it’s enough to make him gag.

An entirely terrible thought suddenly strikes him, and he freezes with one hand on the drain plug. If Tsunade knows, then— “Jiraiya saw,” he realizes with no little amount of horror.

“Orochimaru, the entire _city_ saw,” Tsunade says without an ounce of sympathy. “You’ll be lucky if Jiraiya doesn’t have _recordings_.”

God damn it. Orochimaru hisses under his breath, rinsing his hands off and drying them briskly, then stalking towards his library. “If you burn them, I will tell you _exactly_ what happened when Jiraiya took Dan out for his bachelor’s party.”

“You _know_? You’ve _known_?” Tsunade's voice rises several decibels with outrage. “Orochimaru!”

“And I will gladly share the information, provided Jiraiya has no copies of the news report,” Orochimaru says slyly.

“You're a bastard,” Tsunade tells him, though he likes to think she sounds at least grudgingly fond. “Fine. I’ll turn the pervert upside down and shake him a bit, see what falls out.”

Knowing Tsunade, that’s entirely literal. Orochimaru has no problems with this. “Best of luck,” he says, and hangs up before she can start cursing at him.

For a long moment, he stands in the doorway of the library, eyes on his desk and the faint glow of the five flowers there. _White Fang_ , he thinks, and…without the article in front, it’s not as terrible as some superhero names. Ostentatious, certainly, but with superheroes that’s likely to be expected, and at least he doesn’t seem enamored of spandex the way many do. Body armor and breathable clothing is much more practical.

Well, it’s unlikely Orochimaru will ever see him again. He was only in that part of town to give a lecture, and he doesn’t go there often. The hard light constructs will keep him occupied; there's no need to dwell on the man who created them outside of a passing interest in his abilities.

Orochimaru closes his eyes, shakes himself, and goes to make sure Anko isn’t about to flood the apartment.

 

 

Because the world laughs in the face of coincidence, two weeks after Orochimaru makes a resolution not to dwell on his encounter with the White Fang, he rounds a corner several blocks from his personal lab and walks straight into a mugging.

“Don’t move!” a man bellows, and Orochimaru is grabbed and jerked backwards with the barrel of a gun pressing up beneath his chin. The woman who was apparently the original victim turns and bolts, and the mugger curses. “You! What do you want?!”

“I wonder,” Orochimaru says, faux-thoughtful and snide, because Tsunade is absolutely right and his sharp tongue is definitely going to get him killed someday. “Given that I'm walking down a street in broad daylight, headed towards the subway station with my subway pass in hand, what could it possibly be?”

 _Broad daylight_ is, perhaps, something of an exaggeration. It’s slightly later than Orochimaru had intended to leave, and the shadows in the streets are stretching long and thick as the moon rises, but it’s hardly the witching hour. Orochimaru was not prepared for this sort of thing, or he would have dropped Manda in his bag this morning. _That_ would certainly offer the mugger a very unpleasant surprise.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man growls at him, and starts shuffling them backwards. Orochimaru helpfully makes himself as heavy and immovable as possible. “Lady, if you scream, we’re going to have problems.”

In general, Orochimaru has never been overly fussed by people mistaking him for female. He wears clothes that might possibly blur the line a bit, as well as makeup, and his long hair and general features make the confusion an understandable one. However, being mugged at gunpoint is not exactly encouraging Orochimaru to react reasonably, and he hisses through his teeth, snapping, “I'm a _man_ ,” as he kicks back hard.

The mugger yelps, snarls, and out of the corner of his eye Orochimaru sees him jerk the gun away, then bring it slamming back down butt-first. He braces himself for the hit, and—

A flash of light like a firework going off in front of him. The gun hits something hard that echoes the way glass might, but doesn’t break, and Orochimaru doesn’t need a clearer invitation. He grabs the arm around his throat, drops, twists, and flips the man right over his head to land heavily on the concrete. Instantly, white light blooms to cover him like some sort of chrysalis, hardening over his entire body and pinning him to the ground. Orochimaru gives a vicious snarl, wanting nothing more than to kick the mugger somewhere painful, but restrains himself as a shape drops down from the balcony railing of the darkened café above.

“Hello again. You're a trouble magnet, aren’t you?” the White Fang says, sounding amused.

Straightening, Orochimaru smooths back a few strands of hair that have fallen out of his bun and takes a breath, trying for equilibrium even when his heart is still pounding. “It’s been said before, I’ll admit. Thank you for the assistance.”

“My pleasure.” Astonishingly, the White Fang even sounds as though he means it. “You didn’t look like you needed all that much help, anyway. Pretty fierce for a biochemist, aren’t you?”

It’s strangely flattering that the White Fang remembers that much about him, especially considering their last meeting lasted all of five minutes and is probably something the hero deals with every day. Orochimaru tries not to let it go to his head, watching with interest as the White Fang retrieves the fallen gun and wraps it in a similar cocoon of light. This one, however, shrinks rapidly into a tiny orb, and then dissipates. A small sphere of compacted metal drops to the sidewalk and rolls into the gutter, and the _force_ that must require—

Dragging his mind away from the calculations, Orochimaru glances back at the silver-haired man, waiting patiently for a response, and says, “I took martial arts as a child.” Mostly true, but leaving out the fact that Tsunade and Jiraiya both _forced_ him to take the classes with them after one too many black eyes at the hands of bullies.

“Well, they obviously did you some good.” The White Fang studies him for a moment, then offers, “Can I take you home? It’s getting late, and I promise you, I'm quicker than the subway.”

Orochimaru hesitates, because caution tells him to say _no_ and hurry for the station. But the White Fang has saved him twice so far, is a fairly well-known hero even if he doesn’t usually come this far into the west side of the city, and—

He’s been entirely inoffensive so far. Orochimaru is tetchy and testy and easily offended, and to find someone like that is both rare and…rather nice.

“Thank you,” he says, even though the voice in his head that sounds like Tsunade is getting progressively louder and more insulting as he steps forward. “As long as it’s no trouble.”

“Walking a beautiful man home is never a chore,” the White Fang tells him, grinning, and offers a hand. “Well, for a given value of ‘walking’. Here. Step close and hold tight.”

Orochimaru is thirty years old. He shouldn’t feel flattered just by an easy compliment given by a man in a mask. Nevertheless, the way it warms him is practically tangible, and Orochimaru slips his fingers into the White Fang’s, letting the other man pull him almost up against his side. “Most men would find that term offensive,” he points out, but doesn’t even attempt to protest the arm that wraps around his waist, holding him steady.

“But I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you don’t.” The White Fang chuckles, warm and free, and light shimmers and solidifies beneath their feet. The disk lifts away, rising towards the rooftops, and Orochimaru digs his fingernails into the armored bracer cover the White Fang’s shoulder, holding his breath as the city drops away.

“Easy,” the man murmurs, tightening his grip a little. “I've practiced this plenty of times, don’t worry. Cub flies with me every day and I haven’t dropped him yet.”

The mention of the absent sidekick is enough to boot Orochimaru’s brain back into motion. He releases his death-grip tentatively, then completely when he finds it’s easy enough to keep his balance even as the disk moves, and asks, “No patrolling on a school night? That seems a practical rule.”

“Not one he always follows,” the White Fang admits, wryly amused. “But he’s got a test tomorrow, so I won this time. Not that I can let it go to my head. I'm practically guaranteed to lose the next five arguments now.”

He’s definitely the boy’s father. Orochimaru can't fight a chuckle of his own, gesturing to the area north of the university. “The trials of parenting. Over there, on Rice Street and 39th. Do you know it?”

“Vaguely,” the White Fang confirms, aiming them in that direction. “I just moved to the area, so I'm still learning my way around. Pretty scenery around here.” He tips his head a little, offering Orochimaru a wink. “The neighborhoods aren’t all that bad to look at either.”

“You're shameless,” Orochimaru informs him, amused in spite of himself. He gets annoyed with Jiraiya's over the top flirting, but the White Fang in no way seems to take himself seriously, and that’s enough to make it a little charming. “That was _very_ terrible.”

The White Fang laughs. “This is why Cub hates to let me out on my own,” he confesses cheerfully, sweeping them around the spire of a church and then up again, high enough to carry them over the arches of the bridge spanning the Nakano. The traffic passing beneath them is a rush of lights reflecting off the darkened water, and in the glow of the waxing moon and the buildings on either side of the river, it’s easy to forget the grim, polluted greyness that the water holds by day.

Usually Orochimaru isn’t much of one to appreciate such sights, but he’ll admit this is…uncommonly peaceful.

“You're taking over this area of the city now that you live here?” he asks, watching darkened streets slip past as they make a long, gradual turn around the edge of the park and drift east, towards Orochimaru’s neighborhood. A sideways glance at the White Fang’s face shows no sign of strain despite the fact that he’s maintaining the hard light construct beneath them. It makes Orochimaru think of the roses on his desk, still perfect even weeks later. The logical assumption would be that the act of creation itself is what takes energy; afterward, the construct is self-sustaining—

“ _Taking over_ makes it sound like I'm in the mob,” the White Fang complains, pulling a face. “I just…want to make it safe for my son to walk the streets at night. I'm not going out of my way to claim a territory or mark out a section of the city that belongs to me.”

Orochimaru looks away, turning his eyes to a familiar street corner coming into view below them. He…understands, in a way he wouldn’t have before adopting Anko and Kabuto. “An admirable goal,” he says. “In that case, I'm glad for your relocation.” He might not let his children walk home alone from school quite yet—not until they're older and have better control of their abilities, and on that day he will truly pity anyone who tries to threaten them—but it’s better, certainly. Konoha can be a dangerous place, even in the decent neighborhoods, and despite the handful of heroes quite a lot slips through the cracks.

The hard light disk touches down without so much as a thump, then shatters into glittering shards that whirl up and away. Orochimaru lifts his head as they sweep past him, turning his face up to the sky to watch them rise like falling stars in reverse, and when he looks back down the White Fang is watching him, expression almost entirely hidden behind his mask. Less hidden is the smile he’s wearing as he steps back, putting a little more space between them.

“I’d say stay out of trouble,” he jokes, and the humor lights up his face, “but somehow I don’t think you're the type.”

“Neither of these incidents has had anything to do with me,” Orochimaru retorts. “Coincidence, entirely. _You_ seem to be the only unifying factor, White Fang.”

That earns him a laugh, startled but warm. “Maybe I am,” he agrees, and light glows behind him, a path of white squares leading up like a staircase towards the top of the apartment building. The White Fang lifts a hand, stepping up onto the first one, and adds, “As long as you're not hurt I'm hardly complaining, Doctor, since it means I got to see you again. You look lovely with your hair up like that, in case no one’s told you today.”

Automatically, slightly startled, Orochimaru puts a hand up to touch his bun. Wisps are coming loose, and his bangs have fallen down to cover one side of his face. He’s pale and eerie-looking and has a tendency to favor heavy sweeps of purple eyeliner that make Tsunade despair of him, and…lovely isn’t a word most people use when directed towards him. _Unsettling_ is far more common.

“You're an incorrigible flirt,” is what he say, forcing himself to drop his hand. “I'm surprised you get anything done at all without your son to keep you in line, if you're stopping to pay compliments to everyone you see.”

The White Fang pauses, looking down at him, and smiles. “Not everyone,” he promises. “Only fierce biochemists whose first thoughts after nearly getting hit by a bus are entirely for their research. Passion like that is admirable.”

Orochimaru remembers practically mowing the hero down to get to his notebooks, and he doesn’t quite flush, but the thought is there. He’s hardly self-conscious—anything but, really—but he can count the number of relationships he’s had on one hand, and they start with drinks more often than compliments.

“Good night,” he says with all the poise he can pull around himself, and steps back. “Thank you again.”

“As I said before, it was my pleasure, Doctor.” The White Fang sweeps him a bow, grinning, and Orochimaru can't quite take his eyes off the fall of shaggy silver hair as it slides forward.

This man is too attractive by half, now that Orochimaru’s looking at him away from the distraction of mortal danger. And that’s without ever having seen his face.

He forces himself to step away, to head for his building without looking back. It almost works, but—

One look towards shattering light and glittering darts like stars falling in reverse, and Orochimaru can't look away from the hero rising through the darkness, surrounded by sparks. He stands on the steps, staring like a fool, until the White Fang is entirely gone and the street has returned to its regular evening gloom.

 

 

Orochimaru’s third encounter with the White Fang is, even more than the last two times, a stroke of absolute luck, and more timely than Orochimaru would care to admit.

“Orochimaru!” Tsunade shouts, lunging for him, but Jiraiya has an arm hooked around her waist and hauls her back, even though his desperate eyes are fixed on Orochimaru’s face, wide with fear. Orochimaru grunts, saving his breath and scrabbling frantically for some kind of purchase as the balcony lurches and groans. It’s almost perpendicular to the ground, and of _course_ their table had to be the closest to the now-shattered railing.

“Go!” Orochimaru snarls at both of his friends, just before his aching hand slips from the exposed rebar he’s been clinging to. There's a moment of lurching, gut-wrenching freefall, a whirling view of the street so far below and the desperate battle an entire group of heroes are waging, and—

With a hard, heavy _thud_ he slams into a chest that’s quickly becoming familiar, and strong arms snatch him close. Another second of freefall before the White Fang manages to turn their graceless tumble into a practiced flip, and his boots thud against a flat surface where there should be only open air. Orochimaru clutches at his armored shoulders, heart pounding in his throat, and feels the itch that’s been in the back of his mind all morning grow stronger.

“Goddamn, lovely,” the White Fang manages, sounding faintly winded. “You're bad for my blood pressure.”

“And you sound like an old man,” Orochimaru retorts, but his eyes are on the fight going on below them. A flash of blood-red draws his attention, and from there he automatically seeks out the dark blue that’s always nearby, just in time to see Tempest throw himself headlong at the monster as it turns, his sword leading. The monster’s hide is too thick to so much as dent beneath the blow—not even Fury, weaving around the thing’s feet on the ground, seems to be having an effect despite her inhuman strength. But, if what Orochimaru is hearing is what he thinks it is—

“Can you get down there?”

“You want to go _closer_?” the White Fang demands incredulously, but leaps lightly from the ledge of hard light he’s standing on. Another disk blooms beneath his feet, carrying them down in a wide arc to keep them out of the direct path of the fight. “Doctor, if this is to satisfy your curiosity about the threat of the week—”

Orochimaru scoffs, not looking away from the creature as it roars, a mouth full of crocodile teeth snapping shut a bare inch behind Hellcat as she leaps and twists out of its path. Shodai sweeps in after her, thick, gnarled roots growing up and trapping the thing’s feet, but it snaps them like twine and lunges for him. Turning sharply, one arm still clutching Orochimaru to him, the White Fang growls, sweeping out a hand, and a flurry of dagger-edged darts of white light slam into the beast’s snout.

It spins again, intent and murderous, but before it can even take a step towards them there’s a shout. With a crackle of contained electricity that almost sounds like chirping birds, Cub hurls himself from the closest tree and brings lightning-wreathed fists crashing down on the wide head. It staggers, shaking itself hard, and the boy goes flying. A flash of red snatches him out of the air, and Hellcat drops him next to the shattered fountain, then slingshots herself around the ugly statue that’s still partially standing to slam feet-first into a green-scaled side as the beast grabs for Tempest.

“Cub!” the White Fang calls worriedly, dropping down to the ground and setting Orochimaru on his feet.

“I'm fine,” Cub insists, staggering to his feet. “Let me try again! That did more than any of _them_ have managed.”

“Do it,” Orochimaru agrees, stretching out the other-sense that’s always lurking just below his thoughts. The mind before him is strange, almost slippery, like trying to grasp silk strings in a storm, but…possible. Probably.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to see the White Fang opening his mouth, clearly about to protest, and Orochimaru snorts. “Try again. This time I’ll hold it still. And if Tempest has any ability with ice, that will slow the creature down as well. It’s enough like a snake that it won't do well with cold.”

The White Fang hesitates, watching him, and then looks back at the fight, just in time to see Tempest dive in front of Sharingan and Shodai, the latter dragging the former back to his feet. The beast’s huge snout slams into the sheathed sword braced before Tempest like a shield, knocking him back and off balance, and it’s only Fury hurling herself full-force against the side of its head that saves all three of the men from getting eaten.

“Doctor, I don’t mean to disparage whatever you can do,” the White Fang says, mouth tightening, “but that thing’s been walking right through my hard light constructs like they're not even there. I don’t think anything short of diamond chains is going to be able to pin it down.”

“Thankfully, some things don’t have to be physical to hold fast,” Orochimaru says, and then grabs for the creature’s mind, unwilling to argue any further.

Snakes are simple—Orochimaru doesn’t control them so much as _communicate_ with them, and they're generally happy enough to do what he asks of them. This beast, for all that its DNA is mostly serpentine, is something far different. It fights back, mind straining against the confines of Orochimaru’s will, body twisting and twitching even as he orders every limb to hold where it is. A high, furious roar breaks loose from its throat as it tries to shake him off, but if there's one thing Orochimaru doesn’t lack it’s willpower, and he doubles down.

There's no room for extraneous thought, not even enough to shout at the watching heroes to move, but thankfully Tempest is more than capable of recognizing an opening. He snarls a command at Shodai, drawing his sword again, and Sharingan moves forward, clearly intending to steal the creature’s will. Tempest snaps another clear order, making Sharingan hiss back, but the latter retreats nevertheless, positioning himself directly in front of Orochimaru.

“Can your kid do that again?” he demands of the White Fang.

“ _I_ am standing right here,” Cub retorts, folding his arms over his chest. “And yes, I can. Platform?”

Rather than protest again, the White Fang raises a hand, and light shimmers into another disconnected staircase leading up. “Be careful,” he warns, even as white brilliance condenses into a short sword in his hand. A breath to gather strength and he throws himself forward, battering at iron-hard scales like he’s trying to cleave right through them.

There's a sharp twist, a mental jerk, and Orochimaru grits his teeth, strengthening his presence as he bears down on the monster, straining to hold it. He’s commanded snakes before, even several at a time, but this thing is bigger and stronger and much, much angrier. Not entirely a snake, either, and that just makes it harder. It manages a short, jerky lunge, half a second before the lighting crackling in Cub’s hands slams down on top of its skull.

Something wet drips down Orochimaru’s face. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to raise a hand and check, but he’s fairly certain his nose is bleeding.

Another crackling burst of electricity makes the monster stagger, and the water from the shattered fountain rises in tandem, wrapping around clawed feet and freezing solid. The reptilian beast jerks, twisting, but Orochimaru drags it back under control as the silver-haired boy hits it again, and then again. One more, and—

An explosion of darkness behind Orochimaru’s eyes, heavy enough to smother, and those strands of silk are torn from his grasp. He staggers, tumbling backwards, and sits down hard on the flagstones. Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear a loud, thundering crash as several tonnes of reptile collapses in front of him, shaking the ground, but can't move. Trying to catch his breath is hard enough right now. Though it’s certainly fascinating to see the creature start shrinking rapidly, pieces falling off and shifting back into common animals that immediately bolt for cover. Three snakes, he counts before he has to close his eyes, and at least one iguana.

“Orochimaru!” a familiar voice shouts, and then snarls, “I'm a doctor, get the hell out of my way!”

Tsunade, of course. Orochimaru wonders how he ever could have expected differently.

“Careful, hime,” Jiraiya cautions, clearly following, and a moment later his familiar hand is on Orochimaru’s shoulder, gripping tight. “Hey, you alive in there, bastard? Just so you know, if you’re dead, I'm turning those two monsters of yours loose on the city. Payback for all the times you’ve made me babysit.”

Orochimaru blinks, shakes his head to clear it, and wipes a hand over his face. It comes away smeared with blood, as he expects, but he ignores that and says snidely, “Ah yes, all two times I've forced you to watch my children. Traumatizing indeed.”

“Traumatizing is a good word for it,” Jiraiya retorts, though his expression is relieved. “If Anko doesn’t turn into a mass murderer by the time she’s seventeen, I’ll buy you drinks for the rest of our natural lives.”

Tsunade snorts softly, a faint green glow limning the hand that she presses to Orochimaru’s forehead. “No mention of Kabuto?” she asks dryly. “You're worried about Anko over _him_?”

Jiraiya waves an expressive hand. “Kabuto's probably already a serial killer. It’s not like Orochi would care, or like anyone could manage to catch him.”

“He is _seven_ , and the real reason he intimidates you is because he surpassed your cognitive ability when he was five, fool,” Orochimaru hisses, and as soon as he stops seeing double he bats Tsunade's hand away, pushing to his feet. Someone grabs his elbow gently, and he’s getting far too used to that touch if he already recognizes it.

“Your son?” the White Fang asks, steadying him, and then easily stepping away once he’s sure Orochimaru is going to remain standing.

“Adopted,” Orochimaru confirms, glancing around the square. The café balcony above is still dangling precariously, one of the first victims of the creature’s bulk after it first appeared, and there's water leaking everywhere. Several people are helping to round up injured bystanders, Sharingan and Shodai among them, while Tempest and Hellcat are warily standing guard over the last remaining piece of the monster, a very confused-looking girl. “Your son is unhurt?”

The White Fang tips his head towards the lone tree that survived the rampage, where Cub is crouched next to the trunk, listing a little. “He’s fine, just tired. The same as you, it seems. Do you need me to take you home again?”

Tsunade's eyes narrow sharply, and Jiraiya's widen with what’s probably unfortunately glee. Orochimaru shoots them both a poisonous look before pointedly turning away to face the hero. “If you would be so kind,” he agrees, even though he knows it’s only a temporary escape from his friends’ questions.

“Of course,” the White Fang says warmly, and then raises his voice and calls, “Cub, we’re going!”

The boy bounces to his feet and hurries over, clearly not entirely exhausted. “Leaving?” he protests. “But what if it reforms? Everyone else is useless against it.”

“Cub, be _polite_ ,” the White Fang chides, clearly something he’s used to repeating. A disk shimmers into existence, and he steps on, offering Orochimaru a hand. “That poor girl doesn’t look like she has any idea what happened, so I don’t think it will be a problem.”

“Likely some form of non-lethal absorption,” Orochimaru confirms. “The animals’ instincts must have overwhelmed her own.” He takes the proffered hand, letting the White Fang pull him up and wrap an arm around his waist again, and though he doesn’t truly need to, he curls his fingers into the edge of the hero’s armor.

“Well, I suppose,” Cub allows, hopping up to sit by their feet. He hesitates, debating something with himself, and then says offhandedly, “That paper you wrote on the extent of destabilization in the DNA of those exposed to the mutating agent versus those born with the mutations—it was good.”

The White Fang chuckles a little as they lift off, raising a hand in a brief wave to Tempest when he glances over. The other hero nods in return, and the White Fang glances down at his son. “If he’s talking about the article I think he is, he hung it up on his wall. _Good_ is probably an understatement.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Cub hisses, the barest hint of a flush visible over the top of his mask. He very carefully doesn’t look at Orochimaru.

That Cub read it and understood it at his age—likely no more than fourteen—is impressive, and also intriguing. “You like science?” he asks curiously. “Any branch in particular?”

“Chemistry,” the boy answers immediately. He freezes, and adds in a tone that’s probably meant to be casual, “But biology can be interesting too.”

It takes effort not to laugh. “I would be glad to show you my lab, should you be interested,” Orochimaru offers, and Cub side-eyes him like he can't believe the offer. Orochimaru smirks at him, and adds, “I'm always happy to corrupt the youth. Learning how to build a bomb out of the contents of a janitor’s closet is likely something that will come in handy, should this be your preferred career.”

Cub looks very, very interested, and the White Fang lets out a laughing groan. “Oh, lovely, you're never going to get rid of him now.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Cub repeats, somewhere between mortified and outraged. A pause, and he adds in a hopeful voice, “But I can go, right?”

“If the doctor doesn’t mind, I don’t see why I should.”

“Orochimaru,” Orochimaru offers on impulse. When the White Fang glances at him, clearly surprised, he rolls his eyes and looks away. “You’ve saved my life three times now. I believe you’ve earned first name privileges.”

“But I was having fun with ‘lovely’,” he laments. Orochimaru gives him the look that deserves, and he chuckles. A glance down at his son, who’s watching him with a judgmental expression, and something passes between them. Cub pulls a face and crosses his arms over his chest, pointedly looking away, and the White Fang laughs. “Sakumo,” he returns cheerfully. “Sakumo Hatake. Since you likely just saved my life, I think it’s fair I return the favor. Especially since it will be hard to invite you out for coffee later when you don’t know my real name.”

It takes a moment for Orochimaru to parse the full meanings of the offer, and when he does, his eyes widen. He looks sharply up at the—at Sakumo, and finds dark grey eyes watching him in return. “You can always say no,” the hero tells him, and—

Orochimaru doesn’t _want_ to.

“I’ll have to find a babysitter,” he says, holding Sakumo's gaze. “Tsunade's niece is watching my children now, but she has class soon. And seeing as I appear to have been blacklisted by every sitter in the neighborhood…”

“Kakashi can do it,” Sakumo volunteers with the cheerful malice of someone very used to parenting a hellion. “If you don’t mind, Orochimaru?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking _me_ that?” Kakashi complains, huffing quietly. “I was going to study with Rin and Obito later.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand,” Sakumo says patiently.

Orochimaru thinks of Anko and Kabuto's reaction to new sitters and restrains a snort. “Invite them as well,” he proposes, and when Sakumo glances at him with one brow raised he smiles slyly. “The more the merrier.”

Understanding dawns, and Sakumo swallows his laughter. More victims offered up as sacrifice is never a bad thing, after all.

“You know, coffee takes a long time,” Sakumo says, and his arm tightens slightly on Orochimaru’s waist as they cross the river. “We may as well think about dinner, too. Seeing as we’re new to the area, I could use your help finding all the best places.”

Kakashi mutters something under his breath and mimes throwing himself from the disk. Orochimaru gets the feeling he and Kabuto will get along _explosively_. That much sass in close quarters can only end with vast amounts of entertainment for Anko.

“I’d be happy to assist,” he says, and pretends he doesn’t see Sakumo's delighted smile. He also pretends that it doesn’t make something twist warmly in his chest. No need to lay all his cards out so early, after all.

“It’s a date,” Sakumo says, grinning, over Kakashi's huffy protests of excessive sap.

Apparently it is. Orochimaru turns the idea over in his mind for a moment, considering it from all angles, and…

He actually thinks he rather likes it. And Sakumo as well, to his surprise.

It is, Orochimaru concludes, a hypothesis that will require _thorough_ testing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Like glitter and gold (I've got fire in my soul) [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552952) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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